by Robin Helm
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John returned to Donwell for dinner with reluctance. It promised to be an awkward exchange, this first sober conversation with Arthur since the incident at the pond. Would Arthur even remember his drunken revelations about his sister’s letter? And what attitude should he take—firm remonstrance about the prank or shallow patter which kept a semblance of affability, the better to persuade Arthur to cooperate with whatever plans John could make for his removal from Donwell? As it happened, John had no need to make a decision about any such thing.
“I shall be leaving tomorrow,” Arthur announced as he transferred a slice of venison from the serving dish to his plate. “As much as I have enjoyed your hospitality, I have decided to try my luck at the Newmarket races. Newcomb is going, as a matter of fact, and invited me to accompany him. I am desolated to leave the fair Miss Woodhouse, but there it is.”
John’s fork paused in mid-air as he took in this pronouncement. “Tomorrow, you say?”
“Yes, Newcomb is calling for me at ten o’clock in the morning. My trunks are already half packed—Rudd is upstairs now, folding and sorting like anything.”
“I wish you may have a pleasant journey,” said George.
“Yes, indeed,” added John, and stopped himself just in time from wishing him good luck. He was not certain he really did wish Arthur to be successful with his gambling.
The Knightley brothers were left in the library by themselves at an earlier hour than usual that night, their guest excusing himself on the grounds that he ought to get enough rest before his early departure in the morning.
“That was a most unexpected announcement from Arthur at dinner,” said John. “I call that providential—to have him leave now without having any more unpleasantness, and without my having to escort him back to London myself, which was what I was afraid I would have to do. I didn’t know Newcomb was so fond of him that he would invite him.” His brow wrinkled. “In fact, I didn’t know that Newcomb followed racing, did you?”
“He doesn’t,” said George. “He was, however, amenable to the suggestion that he take our young friend away—for a consideration.”
“You arranged this? What kind of consideration enticed him into such an action?”
“I knew he has friends he has been wanting to visit near Newmarket. I offered him the use of my carriage and five pounds besides if he would take Arthur to see the races in Newmarket. There is a big race there two days from now. Arthur may take a coach back to London afterward, if he likes, or to anywhere else in England; he will be at his own charge then.”
“I am most grateful, George.”
“Nonsense. I did it for my own sanity and the good of the neighbourhood.”
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John and George saw Arthur and Newcomb off the next morning with the utmost cheerfulness.
“Any messages to send to my sister?” asked Arthur with a sly smile at John as he ensconced himself in the carriage. Evidently he had no memory of what had been said when he was drunk.
“No, no particular message,” said John coolly. He bid the men farewell, shut the door, and nodded to the coachman to drive on. He and George watched the carriage depart down the avenue away from the house until it was no longer in sight.
“And what are you intending to do with yourself today?” asked George.
“I think I will take a walk. By myself.”
George nodded. “I cannot blame you. Enjoy the solitude.”
John took the road to Langham. He knew that if he walked in Donwell’s grounds or in Highbury he would be caught in conversation with any number of people, and he wanted to think.
Miss Dudley had either led him on deliberately or he had grossly misinterpreted her friendliness. Either way, if there had been any attachment at all, it had been on his side alone. She was also much more mercenary than he had imagined. Not only was she lost to him, but his whole perception of her had altered. He had expected to feel much more miserable about this than he did, and it puzzled him.
Perhaps it was not her that he missed so much as the loss of a place in London society. He tried to mourn this loss instead but likewise found it hard to regret. It was true that he had looked forward to the admiration of people like Harcourt and nameless law clerks and barristers at his ability to consort with the rich and famous; he now saw this as simple vanity, of which he was somewhat ashamed. For the rest, he found himself rather relieved at not being forced to attend the dinners of people he did not like and the balls of those he hardly knew. And there was no way he could grieve the severing of a connection with Arthur!
By the time he had walked for an hour, he was entirely reconciled to his loss. He would always think Maria a beautiful young woman, but even now as her face came to mind she looked a little less enticing—slightly more supercilious and arrogant than he had thought her before. He shook his head. Probably his feelings were affecting his remembrance.
He noticed then that he was close to Hartfield—his walk had circled around Langham and he had come toward Highbury from the other direction. Perhaps he could call on the Woodhouses. Miss Taylor’s ankle was not yet healed… He took out his watch and looked at it. No, it was too early in the day for a mere social call. It would be better to wait a few hours. He walked on a few steps and saw something in the road—it looked like a clump of silky cords. He picked it up and saw that it was a white silk tassel. Memory showed him the reticule Emma had been fidgeting with at Miss Bates’ house—this was very likely one of those tassels. That was reason enough to call now.
He was shown into the drawing room where Miss Taylor was sitting and reading a book with Emma. Mr. Woodhouse was nodding by a small fire, and Isabella was writing a letter at a desk in the corner. His glance lingered on her as she smiled at him and then went on with her letter. She really was a most beautiful girl. He was welcomed warmly by them all, particularly by Emma who thanked him profusely for finding her tassel.
“It went missing yesterday and I thought I must have lost it somewhere in the house. I spent ages looking for it! I even looked out on the road. You must have very good eyes.”
“Not particularly,” said John. “It was the merest chance. Sometimes searching earnestly for something seems to keep you from finding it, and at other times you find exactly what is needed when you were not looking for it at all.” His eyes rested on Isabella as he said it, and although he had not been thinking of her when he began his sentence, by the end of it he knew exactly what he wanted.
“I once lost my spectacles,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “They were not beside my chair—you see them here on the table now. They are always at hand. But they were not there. I forget how we found them. Miss Taylor, how did we find them? I remember we looked for them for a long time.”
“We found them in the morning room, sir.”
“Yes, that is what happened. Emma had taken them in there for some purpose. I was very glad to have them again. How is your brother, Mr. Knightley? I heard he went to Kingston the other day. I hope he did not catch cold.”
John had been gazing at Isabella again while the discussion about spectacles had been going on, staggered by the thoughts that were so new to his consciousness. He dragged his attention back to his host when the question was put to him, but even while he answered inquiries about his brother his mind was busy. Isabella was just what he wanted. She was compassionate, sensible, and simply good. He had long cared for her as a friend; he saw now that he could care for her as so much more.
His eye caught Emma’s. She was looking at him with curiosity and no small amount of interest.
“I suppose, Mr. Knightley,” she said, “that your brother is often lonely at Donwell Abbey.”
“If he is, he has not complained to me about it.”
“And I would think that your life in London is rather lonely, too.” Emma pursued.
“Are you suggesting that I ought to move back to Donwell to keep my brother company so that neither of us will be l
onely?”
“Not necessarily. There are other ways of ending loneliness.”
“Oh?”
“You could get married.”
Miss Taylor cleared her throat. This was evidently understood as a check on Emma’s forwardness, for after John said that he supposed that would solve the problem the subject was dropped. He expressed his satisfaction that Miss Taylor’s ankle was so much better and said that he must be on his way.
“I hope you call again tomorrow, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma. “Things are not nearly so dull when you come to visit.” There was a gleam in her eye that made John nervous, but he looked again at Isabella. It was too great an inducement to deny.
“I believe I will, thank you, Emma.”
He bid them goodbye and walked briskly home.
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George had been gone from home most of the day, first at a meeting at the Crown and then visiting one of his tenants who was ill. When he arrived home and went into the library to write a letter, he found John sitting there with a book open on his lap. His head, however, was turned to gaze out the window.
“Had you a good walk?”
“Excellent. I might even call it enlightening.”
“Oh? How so?”
“I stopped at Hartfield—found a tassel belonging to Emma’s reticule in the road and went in to return it.” He hesitated for a moment and then closed his book and laid it beside him on the sofa. “George, do you consider me to be double-minded? Changeable? Unstable?”
“Not as a rule, no.”
“And if I told you that I had discovered that Isabella Woodhouse might be the one who is ‘part of my soul’ instead of the young lady I had been pursuing for weeks?”
“I would say that my faith in your powers of perception has been restored.”
“Would you?”
“I would. I have been perplexed ever since you came back to Donwell that you could not see Isabella as infinitely superior to Miss Dudley, particularly as a wife for you.”
“And you said nothing!”
“What would you have had me say? I did once or twice give you gentle hints as to my opinion, but they were not very well received. I cannot bear to think what you would have said if I had told you openly that Miss Dudley was a flirt and you would do far better to marry Isabella.”
“True.” John brooded for a moment. “I probably would have challenged you to a duel and started to speak ill of Miss Woodhouse just to show my rejection of your views.”
“Oh, I hardly think you would have gone that far. Still, I would have been the recipient of your icy contempt, and you would have refused to think of Isabella for the rest of your days.”
“My temper is not my great perfection. I suppose I am not the most receptive beneficiary of advice.”
“Hardly.”
“Well, advise me now. Am I pursuing one woman too quickly after having been disillusioned by another? I find it hard to believe even of myself that my affections have transferred from one to the other so quickly.”
“I think you were not as in love with Miss Dudley as you thought you were. You were more in love with an idea of her. It is no wonder that your feelings for her evaporated quickly. Isabella is different. You have known her far longer and much better. If you fall in love with her, it will be with a real woman and not a creature of your imagination.”
John abstractedly picked up the round bolster cushion that lay near him on the sofa and fingered the edging at the seams. “Isabella is very unlike Miss Dudley. Miss Dudley was full of wit and energy, always sparkling and glittering. Isabella is different. We talk, but do not banter. I wonder if I would regret not having that sort of companion?”
“I cannot make that decision for you, of course; you must come to your own conclusions about that. However, if you want my opinion, I think you would soon grow tired of a wife whose every exchange with you was a battle of wits. I think you would regret not marrying someone who had a sweetness of temper, who forgave you your flights into bad humour, and who would not feel the need to be constantly amused by attending the gatherings of society.”
John considered this. “You may be right.”
“Of course I am. If you marry a wife as self-centred as you are, you will be always quarreling with her.”
John threw the bolster at his brother. “Self-centred!”
“Oh, not entirely. But you must admit you are more self-centred than Isabella is.”
John sighed. “Yes.” He got up and retrieved the cushion and placed it back on the sofa in its proper place. “Do you think her goodness and patience will influence me for the good?”
“My dear fellow, you are too precipitate. You have not won her yet. I have been explaining why she would be a better wife for you than Miss Dudley would be. I cannot say what her sentiments will be. She may prefer a cheerful and tolerant man.”
George clapped him on the shoulder and went out of the library, leaving his brother to shift his worries from whether he would regret marrying Isabella to whether he would be able to win her at all.
_______________________
It was the start of an anxious fortnight. Nearly every day he made his way to Hartfield to sit with the Woodhouses, and if possible, talk with Isabella. It did not seem to him that he made much progress. If his suit was to prosper he needed help.
“You have no idea,” he told George, “of the difficulty of conversing with Isabella while her father and sister are in the room. That little Emma—she seems to know exactly what I am about and contrives to embarrass me in any way she can by her questions and her knowing looks. And Mr. Woodhouse—you know how he goes on, asking question after question about the most trivial, commonplace—”
“John—”
“I know, I know. I do respect him, George. A more benevolent man never lived. But as he doesn’t seem to know what I am doing there, and Emma does—I am perpetually parrying the questions of both and can say precious little to Isabella.”
“And where is Miss Taylor all this time?”
“Oh, she is sometimes there, too, of course, but naturally she can only command the attention of one or the other of them, leaving one free to torment me.”
“You could ask Isabella to walk with you in the garden.”
“I did, last week. Emma immediately asked if she could join us, and Isabella was too soft-hearted to deny her. She made a very intrusive third. George, you must come with me when I go to Hartfield and distract the attention of Emma and Mr. Woodhouse.”
The next visit was a little better. George was there to engage the attention of Emma; he found her precocious repartee and sense of humour entertaining. John was able to talk with Isabella in the garden for such a long time that George thought no one at Hartfield could be in any doubt of his brother’s intentions.
“I find her restful,” John told his brother on the way home. “I am never worried that she will think me not clever or entertaining enough for her—indeed, she seems to think me intelligent and rely on my judgement. I never feel that I must play a part to impress her. Moreover, I never fear that in an unguarded moment I will say something that brings her scorn down on me.”
“I may say that I am surprised you have not yet proposed.”
“I am sure of my own feelings but am not at all sure of hers.”
“She is very friendly toward you.”
“She is friendly toward everyone. Besides, I used to think Miss Dudley was kind. I fear I cannot trust my own judgement on such things.”
“Will you trust mine? I can promise that she is friendlier to you than she is to me.”
“But I am a younger son. She could do far better for herself.”
“Indeed she could,” smirked his brother.
They walked on quietly for a few minutes and then John said hesitantly, “You do not think…”
“What?”
“You do not think she is hoping for an offer from you? You are a far better catch than I am. Moreover, you have sp
oken to me so highly of her—no more than she deserves, of course, but more than you used to—I wondered if perhaps you might have recently started to want to marry her yourself.”
George could not forbear a smile at the trepidation in his brother’s tone. It was such a contrast with his former cocksure self.
“Not at all. She and I are not suited. I admire her character and her beauty, but she is a far better match for you than for me.”
“You think so?”
“I do. She would put up with your crotchets admirably—probably too admirably. You might be better reformed by a less amiable woman who became cross whenever you did.”
John shuddered. “I do not intend to marry in order to be reformed.”
“It is just as well—your temperament is so entrenched that any effort to reform you would not succeed, and both you and your wife would be unhappy.”
“I daresay you are right. I wish I knew if she would have me.” He kicked a small stone in the road. “I am beginning to feel that I cannot live without her, George. What if she should not love me after all?”
“I’m afraid there is only one way of finding out.”
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The month of August drew to a close. John had been visiting Hartfield so frequently and had such long conversations with Isabella that George teased his brother that if he did not ask for Isabella’s hand soon, he would be in danger of a breach of promise suit.
“As it happens,” John said with dignity, “I am planning to ask Isabella to ride with me in my curricle tomorrow.”
“And you will ask her then?”
“I will ask her then.”
John went to Hartfield on the fateful day hoping that Isabella would be alone in the drawing room when he arrived. She sometimes was if Emma was still at her lessons and Mr. Woodhouse was in the library or taking his daily walk. On this day, however, only Mr. Woodhouse was missing from the drawing room; Miss Taylor and Emma were sewing and Isabella was reading. John waited only until the first greetings were over before making his request.
